


exactly what I was hoping for

by horatioandophelia



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist Grantaire, M/M, Non-Binary Jean Prouvaire, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Roses, and glitter bombs, and way too much coffee, gratuitous sunlight, there's a birthday party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 02:51:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19714780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/horatioandophelia/pseuds/horatioandophelia
Summary: A few weeks ago Apollo asked Grantaire to make some poster designs, but that was before Courf's birthday party happened and things got weird. At the time Grantaire had almost asked him out, actually, he'd bought roses and everything...





	exactly what I was hoping for

“There’s a massive pile of dead roses on the windowsill,” remarked Combeferre drily. “Is there a reason for that?”

“Uh,” said Grantaire. “They’re for a still life?”

“Ironic,” Combeferre responded. “Since they’re very dead.”

“Yeah, I was going to paint them, but then… I never got around to it. Busy doing _other things_ ,” Grantaire said, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. 

“Like getting super drunk at Courf’s birthday party and smashing his PlayStation?”

“Oh my God, that was an _accident_ and it was _ten days ago,_ can we please let it go?!”

“Nah, Courf told me to bring it up at every available opportunity and torture you about it,” smirked Combeferre. “Sorry.”

“No, you’re not,” huffed Grantaire. “Now get out, you’ll be late.”

“Right you are. Toodles,” said Combeferre genially, swinging his bag over his shoulder. 

As Combeferre shut the door behind him, Grantaire let out a sigh of relief, moving from his easel to the windowsill and gently extracting the card hidden beneath the pile of long-dead red roses. _Hey, Apollo,_ it read. _Want to go to dinner? I’ll buy to make up for fighting with you about the Social Contract the whole time ;)_

Staring down at the card, Grantaire let his shoulders fall. He grabbed the pile of roses with careless, cruel hands, shoving them into the garbage and tossing the card on top. He mercilessly shoved the whole pile down, slamming the lid shut and dusting the decayed petals off onto his sweatshirt before slumping back down in front of his easel. 

_Never going to happen._

_THREE WEEKS PRIOR_

_“Don’t be a fool, Grantaire!”_

_“I’m afraid I have no other choice, darling,” drawled Grantaire, smirking recklessly. “I must protest that while Saint-Just does have singularly wonderful ideas about the equality of man, he and his buddy Robespierre did facilitate the mass murder of approximately -- ”_

_“I’m not talking about the Terror! I’m talking about Rousseau! For God’s sake, it’s completely different! The Social Contract is a totally different idea than terrorizing the people!”_

_“But, just to be clear, didn’t the application of the Social Contract by the government directly deteriorate into them facilitating the Terror?”_

_“You’re impossible!” cried Enjolras._

_“Am I wrong, though?” grinned Grantaire._

_Enjolras’s eyes blazed. “Not technically,” he gritted out._

_Grantaire beamed up at him from his seat. “Cheers, Apollo,” he said, toasting Enjolras with his wineglass. “I’ll drink to that.”_

_Enjolras turned away from him with an exasperated huff, but Grantaire was shocked to see what looked like the suppression of a smile playing around his lips. As he watched, Enjolras made his way over to Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s table, where Courfeyrac said something that wiped any semblance of a smile from Enjolras’s face, making him turn bright red and stare down at the floor. Courfeyrac’s head turned and he looked straight at Grantaire, giving him a wink. Enjolras glanced over at him as well, turning even redder before standing up and marching out of the room, the back of his neck still scarlet._

What? _Grantaire mouthed at Courfeyrac._

_Courfeyrac smirked back at him, saying nothing. Combeferre, looking thoroughly put out by the whole exchange, just shook his head and followed Enjolras out of the room._

_“Jehan, is it just me, or was - ” began Grantaire, turning to the poet beside him._

_“No, R, it’s not just you,” said Jehan in a bored voice, not looking up from their phone._

_“It’s not? Are you sure? That wasn’t just all in my head?”_

_“No, it wasn’t.”_

_“So that was actually, maybe, possibly - ”_

_Jehan muttered something that sounded very similar to ‘for the love of God’ and stood up, walking over to Courfeyrac and sitting down next to him, smiling sweetly as Courfeyrac gently brushed their hair away from their face and whispered something to them._

_Grantaire swigged back the rest of his wine, trying desperately to quell the fluttering hope that had just awoken in his chest._

Dimly, Grantaire was aware that his back was killing him as he hunched over his easel, but it was a pale price to pay as the face beneath his fingers slowly came to life, the eyes beginning to blaze out at the observer, the mouth twisted in righteous fury, the jawline partially obscured by the falling curls surrounding the seraphic face of --

_Damn it._

Slowly pulling out of the old familiar revelry that possessed him every time he sat down at the easel, Grantaire stared down at the face of the man he loved. Enjolras was inescapable, even in the refuge of art. Closing his eyes briefly, Grantaire ripped the half-finished portrait from the easel and tossed it down to the floor, resolutely turning to the photograph he was determined to replicate and forbidding himself, as ever, to dwell on the impossible. 

Suddenly his phone chimed. Sighing, he rolled his shoulders and reached for it. Jehan was probably asking him to pick up more lavender on his way home, since their self-proclaimed ‘witchy shit’ sometimes required absolutely ungodly amounts of --

_New message from: Enjolras_

Grantaire’s breath left him in a rush. Fingers trembling, he unlocked his phone.

_Enjolras: Hello Grantaire, I was wondering if it would be possible for you to send me the designs for those posters before Thursday so we can get them printed and distribute them earlier. If not, Thursday is still fine. Thanks. - E_

Grantaire’s head snapped to the pile of half-finished sketches on the table, preliminary designs for the posters which he should have completed a week ago. He would have to pull an all-nighter to complete them before Thursday, and he might have to skip class as well if he wanted them to be truly excellent. Yet despite this, he knew instantaneously what his answer would be. 

_You: yeah no prob, jehan can drop them off wednesday morning if that works?_

The reply was instant.

_Enjolras: Yes, that would be fine. Thank you. - E_

Staring down at his phone, he groaned internally. _Better start making coffee now. The things I do for this man._

_TEN DAYS PRIOR_

_“Happy birthday, Courf!” cried Feuilly, his arm around Bahorel, who was blowing a party horn. “Many happy returns!”_

_“Who_ says _that?” demanded Grantaire, looking up from his cake. “Many happy returns? Isn’t that from, like, Winnie the Pooh?”_

_“Don’t judge me, I’m drunk,” retorted Feuilly, booping a passing and totally bemused Joly on the nose with his glass. “And as such I have no responsibility for what comes out of my mouth. Or what goes in it,” he added, glancing at Bahorel, who grinned lasciviously._

_“Fair,” conceded Grantaire. “But also, gross.”_

_Feuilly scoffed. “You’re just jealous, R, don’t give me that.”_

_“Oh, yeah, totally jealous of you and boxer boy,” said Grantaire, rolling his eyes. “Why don’t you guys just get a room so we don’t have to watch you eye-bang each other all night?”_

_Feuilly looked like he wanted to retort, but Bahorel began kissing his neck, for no other apparent reason than that it was there, and he suddenly lost his train of thought. Setting his glass down and pulling the party horn from Bahorel’s limp grasp, he tugged his boyfriend towards the stairs._

_Snorting, Grantaire turned towards the party grouped around the dining room table, which was piled high with gifts. Courfeyrac’s invitation had explicitly demanded gifts - ‘all jokes and nothing serious, on pain of death’ - and Grantaire was especially looking forward to the two glitter bombs he knew were hidden in the pile. Shuffling forward carefully to avoid spilling cake and melted ice cream, he maneuvered his way to one side of the table._

_Courfeyrac was already in the middle of opening his first gift, which turned out to be a gigantic stuffed elephant, from --_

_“Ferre, you shouldn’t have!” cried Courfeyrac, slightly weepy. “You know I love elephants, and you got me this huge one, I can’t believe it!” He threw his arms around a slightly stunned Combeferre, who hugged him back tentatively._

_“You’re drunk, sweetheart,” he said gently._

_“Doesn’t mean this isn’t the best gift ever,” sniffled Courfeyrac. “You’re just so_ thoughtful _sometimes, I can’t stand it.”_

_“Hey, wait a second, you haven’t opened mine!” protested Jehan._

_“Oh, right, there’s more!” cried Courfeyrac loudly. “And I know that Jehan’s is gonna be the_ best, _the absolute best, because Jehan is an amazing human being, the sweetest and the cutest and the sexiest -- ”_

_“Courf, stop it,” muttered Jehan, completely pink and trying cover their smile with their hands._

_Grantaire sighed, moving away from the table towards the living room as Courfeyrac began to press drunken kisses all over a laughing Jehan’s face._

_Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta were on the couch in the living room, talking about nothing in particular, it seemed. Joly was holding Musichetta’s hand as Bossuet ran his fingers through her hair, nodding at something Joly was saying. Grantaire swallowed, turning away from the scene of quiet intimacy with a bitter taste in his mouth. Stepping around people, he managed to make it back to the kitchen and grabbed an open bottle of tequila, pouring a generous amount into his half-empty glass._

_“Hello, Grantaire,” said a voice behind him._

_Jumping, Grantaire narrowly managed to avoid spilling his drink everywhere as he whirled to face Enjolras, standing just behind him._

_“Uh, hey, man,” he stammered. “Are - are you having a good time?”_

_“Yes, it’s fun,” said Enjolras hesitantly._

_Grantaire considered him. “Parties not really your thing?”_

_Enjolras sighed, glancing at Courfeyrac, who had just opened his second glitter bomb and was howling with laughter at something Marius had said. “Not really,” he admitted._

_“That’s alright,” Grantaire tried to reassure him. “They’re not for everybody. It was nice of you to come,” he added lamely._

_Enjolras looked at him with something that almost looked like vulnerability. “You think so? I’m not doing anything, I’m not really much fun.” He glanced again at Courfeyrac, who was covered in glitter and very obviously in his element._

_“Well, yeah,” said Grantaire. “You’re here in spite of the fact that you don’t really want to party? It means you love your friends, dude. That’s, like, the working definition of nice.”_

_Enjolras looked at him, smiling softly. “Thanks, R.”_

_“Y-yeah,” stammered Grantaire, flummoxed._

_Enjolras took a step towards him. “Grantaire, I know that we’ve disagreed a lot,” he began._

_“Yeah, more like fought a lot,” muttered Grantaire good-naturedly._

_“Yes,” said Enjolras, who looked uncomfortable. “But I was just wondering, if you were in agreement, to maybe put that - put that behind us and maybe… move forward?”_

_“What do you mean?”_

_“Well,” said Enjolras. Was he_ blushing? _“Well, I was just wondering if, you know, maybe we could -- ”  
_

_“R! My man! Grantaire, the man with the plannnn,” slurred Courfeyrac. “Thanks for the glitter, dude, the more the better, I am the glitter,” he hiccupped, “aficionado, all thanks you to and Bahorel. Where_ is _Bahorel, by the way?”_

__

_“With Feuilly, upstairs,” said Grantaire quickly. “Enjolras, what were you going to say?”_

__

_Enjolras shook his head, looking down. “Never mind.”_

__

_Grantaire took a step towards him, suddenly and uncomprehendingly desperate. “No, please, tell me, Apollo.”_

__

_Enjolras looked at him, then glanced down at the drink in Grantaire’s hand. “No, I don’t think - not - not now. I - I think I’m going to head out.”_

__

_Grantaire watched him walk away, the hand holding his drink suddenly numb with shame. Snarling at no one, he knocked back the entirety of its contents and shoved his way back into the kitchen, determined to find the rest of the bottle._

__

__

Taking a generous swig from the coffee pot (he’d abandoned the trouble of mugs a few hours ago), Grantaire checked his phone. _3:19 a.m._ He groaned. Pushing his hair away from his face with the back of his hand, he stood up and stumped towards the sink to get some new rinse water, back aching. 

__

The posters were coming along. If he wasn’t so terrified of Enjolras’s opinion of them, he might even say they looked pretty good. He was using inks, and of course they had somehow migrated up from the canvases onto his hands, his arms, and - he was sure - his face and neck. But it didn’t matter. Jehan was coming by at ten to pick them up, and they’d certainly seen him in worse states. 

__

He hoped, while simultaneously mocking himself for it, that Enjolras might send him a text like _Wow, R, these are incredible,_ or _These are so good that now I just HAVE to take you out for coffee._ And Grantaire would joke that he’d _already had enough coffee in one night for about thirty people, but thanks anyway_ and Enjolras would laugh that ringing laugh that Grantaire had only ever heard a handful of times, as radiant and pure as a bell… 

__

But the posters were coming along. He was nearly finished with this one, and then there was just one more to go. He took another swig of coffee and winced at the bitterness, glancing resentfully at the empty carton of creamer perched on top of the garbage that he still hadn’t taken out. Rolling his eyes, he turned back to his easel, resolutely not thinking about the roses rotting underneath the various empty art supply containers. 

__

__

“Grantaire?”

__

“Mmmf?”

__

“Grantaire, wake up,” said someone softly. 

__

Grantaire raised his head from the tabletop and squinted confusedly at the voice. “‘Jolras?”

__

“Yeah,” Enjolras said, somewhere to his left. “Yeah, R, I’m here.”

__

Grantaire turned his head to look at him. Enjolras was holding his posters in both hands, but he was looking at Grantaire. The sun was streaming in through the studio windows and Grantaire blinked, suddenly realizing that he probably looked like death warmed over. Clearing his throat and sitting up a little straighter, he tried for a smile.

__

“Do they look alright, Apollo?”

__

“Yes,” said Enjolras, still looking at him. “They’re wonderful. They’re perfect, Grantaire, thank you so much.”

__

“Oh,” spluttered Grantaire. “Oh, well, thanks.”

__

“Did you stay up all night making these?” asked Enjolras, looking down at the posters: a figure on a battlement, holding a flag; a woman, clutching a child to her chest, staring at the viewer; a man on a stage, speaking to a rapt crowd. At his expression, Grantaire’s heart clenched - it seemed like Enjolras was looking at these stupid little paintings as if they were reflections of _himself,_ as pathetic and insignificant as they were in comparison. 

__

“Yeah, lots of coffee,” said Grantaire, smiling. “Joly would have thrown a fit, don’t tell him.”

__

Enjolras looked up at him and smiled. Then, as if remembering something, he suddenly sobered. “R, listen, at Courf’s party -- ”

__

“Oh, yeah, no, don’t worry about it,” said Grantaire quickly. “Sorry for trying to make you talk to me about whatever it was. You obviously didn’t want to. My mistake. Won’t happen again.”

__

“No,” said Enjolras, looking suddenly defeated. “I didn’t mean…”

__

“It’s fine, Enjolras,” said Grantaire, determinedly trying to muster a smile. “You said something about moving forward, and I’m totally on board with that. See? I made posters!”

__

Enjolras’s mouth twisted in something that, in a horribly different world, might have been a smile. “Right. And they’re amazing, thank you so much.”

__

Grantaire watched him collect the posters, feeling as if he’d just done something terribly wrong and no idea how to fix it. “Enjolras?”

__

“I’ll see you at the meeting,” said Enjolras in a strangely strangled voice, not looking at him. He stepped over the piles of brushes, narrowly avoiding the coffeepot as it lay abandoned on the floor. Looking back somewhere around Grantaire’s knees, he muttered _thanks again,_ and backed straight into the garbage can. 

__

It toppled over in slow motion, half-finished sketches fluttering gracefully around Enjolras like so many birds, empty coffee cups escaping it to roll haplessly around him, dead roses pouring out of its mouth, and a card with Grantaire’s own illegible scribble coming to rest directly on his foot, the name _Enjolras_ written in red on its face. 

__

Frowning, Enjolras reached down and plucked the card from the refuse at his feet. Grantaire felt his throat contract, his breathing shallow, as Enjolras raised wide eyes to his own.

__

“R?”

__

“Y-yeah,” stammered Grantaire. “Uh.”

__

“Did you - did you mean this? You want to take me out, like on a date?”

__

Grantaire swallowed, his mouth impossibly dry. “Yeah,” he said hoarsely. _If you fucking cry, I swear to God, Grantaire…_

__

Enjolras looked down at the roses at the mouth of the garbage can, at the sketches that littered the floor, at the card in his hand, and then back at Grantaire, who stared back at him helplessly. 

__

As Grantaire watched, Enjolras gently set the posters down, put the card in his pocket, and then all but ran straight to Grantaire, throwing his arms around him.

__

Automatically, Grantaire’s arms wound themselves around Enjolras, his eyes falling closed. Enjolras was whispering _Grantaire, Grantaire_ in a spellbound voice, clutching him in a hungry, mindless way that Grantaire could only soak in as he clutched Enjolras in return, burying his face in Enjolras’s collarbone, not daring to plant kisses there, just breathing him in. 

__

After a moment, Enjolras pulled away and looked Grantaire in the eye, so close and still not close enough. 

__

“I wish I was a painter,” he said in a rush. Grantaire blinked at him. “I do,” Enjolras said, earnest and golden in the the sunlight. “I walked in here this morning and you were asleep on the table. You had all these colors all over your hands and your arms and your cheek, and the sun was streaming in. You were the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, R.”

__

“Come on, Apollo, be serious -- ” said Grantaire, trying to scoff, his heart beating so hard he feared Enjolras would hear it.

__

“I would have painted you, R, I would have painted you a thousand times and never gotten it right,” continued Enjolras.

__

“Enjolras,” breathed Grantaire. “Enjolras, please, what -- ”

__

“If that offer still stands,” said Enjolras, looking him straight in the eye, “then yes, I would very, very much like to go on a date with you. To talk about the Social Contract, or art, or whatever you want to talk about.”

__

Grantaire’s breath left him in a sudden rush and he gasped, “Yes, yes, I want that, too, Apollo -- ”

__

Without letting him finish, Enjolras pulled Grantaire to him and kissed him before pulling away abruptly. 

__

“Sorry, oh my God,” he said, looking mortified. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I should have asked.” 

__

Grantaire looked up at him, smiling, so in love that his chest physically hurt, and waited.

__

“Grantaire, may I kiss you?” said Enjolras, looking very young.

__

Grantaire pushed his fingers through Enjolras’s hair and pulled him down to meet him halfway. 

__

Enjolras kissed him with a sort of totality that Grantaire had only dreamed about, like he wanted _all_ of Grantaire, with his paint stains and his coffee breath and alcohol and smoking and all of his terrible decision-making. And God knew Grantaire wanted all of Enjolras, so he kissed him back with all he had, running his hands along Enjolras’s shoulders, down his back, pulling him close and laughing softly when their teeth clacked together. And in return, Enjolras ran his fingers through Grantaire’s hair, holding his face reverently, kissing and clutching Grantaire like a lifeline. 

__

When they finally broke apart, Grantaire looked up at him, not even trying to hide the stars in his eyes. Enjolras stared down at him like he was something perfect, wonderful, beautiful, like he was worth everything in the world (himself, Grantaire). 

__

“R, I know you’ve had enough coffee for about thirty people, so instead of that, do you maybe want to get breakfast?”

__

Grantaire threw his head back and laughed. “Yes,” he said, his heart singing at the expression on Enjolras’s face at his laughter. “Yes, I’d love that.”

__

__


End file.
